Wrath
by relaxovision
Summary: 'The world is still turning and somehow all it took were a few short journeys around the sun to bring her back to you. You only wish her tears were those of joy.' Quinn successfully worked through her issues. But what does it really take to let go of your past? Faberry - set after college. Canon up to Prom-asaurus.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Another one-shot that turned into more. A big thanks to my beta **nolinkedlists**.

* * *

_And into my garden stole; when the night had veiled the pole_

.

You remember her like you remember every line of every song you ever sang. You remember her like quotes from your favorite books – the books you read so often that in random situations words and images and messages will create a spot in your mind and you find yourself contemplating. Whenever you wake up from such a daydream you have to remind yourself to move again and you're always a little amazed by how easily life goes on without you despite these deep epiphanies you experience. Her memory is only for you.

You remember her like the lullabies you heard as a child and when you close your eyes at night her melodies fill your mind and softly guide you to sleep. You never have to wander far to see her, because she's everywhere.

You flip open a random magazine at the grocery store and there she is, flashing her mega watt smile. You walk through town and her face is adorning every other poster.

You remember her like the steps to your bedroom door back in Lima or the creaking of your garden gate. Every conversation you had back in school is burned into your memory. You know her – her voice, the curls in her hair, the flicker in her eye, her storm outs and how she'd run to you every time she was in doubt.

She helped you grow. Grow strong, independent. It's because of her that you applied to Yale and you're beyond happy she's achieved her dreams, too, not because of you, but despite you. She kept reaching out when you had no one else. When the world came crashing down on you, when your past and your secrets threw their shadow upon you, when you found yourself trapped in one of your dark circles of punishment and self-destruction – she was there, always. She saved your life.

You know her like the summer sun and the winter's snow. You know the depth behind those chocolate eyes; those eyes that now stare at you and everyone from the sidewalk. She always knew she'd be a star one day and you secretly you knew it, too. It was the reason for your envy, for every threat you felt, for every push you gave her in order to put her in her place.

Maybe he knew it, too.

It's been a while since you last saw the real Rachel and not just her picture. College and her moving in with Finn and your first job and then the second – it consumed so much time that you grew apart and all that's left now is a promise to keep in touch. She's still your best friend, more at heart than in action, but it feels real nonetheless. You followed her blooming career and collected paparazzi snapshots of her for fun, or that's what you tell yourself. If you're being honest, though, you like being able to look at her face, the face that you once hated and came to adore. You like her sincere expressions, when she's not smiling for the camera, when she's scrunching up her nose a little or when she frowns. You like seeing her happy with friends or even Finn, when she's smiling for real and her eyes shine just the way they used to back at school when she looked at you. You can almost hear her laughter.

Once upon a time, back in junior year and before, you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off her face. But then she began to smile for you and not just a faceless audience and your anger softened and envy faded away. The foolishness of your younger self makes you chuckle every now and then. It also makes you sad.

You remember that smile as if it were yours, even though you've gone such a long time without it, so when your hear the door bell and open up and there she stands, unsmiling, it almost breaks you.

Hey, you try, come in.

But she just leaps into your arms and sobs. You let her. For a while. You slowly walk the two of you backwards a few steps and close the door with one hand before burying it back in her hair. Her tears soak your shirt and her whimpers echo through your apartment. You wanted to see her, but you can't be glad that she's here. Not like this. Not when she's crying. You can't enjoy being able to hug her again after all this time. You can just stand on the laminate of your living room and hold her. Your heart aches before you've realized what's happening. You feel yourself shatter together with her.

I didn't know where else to go, she sobs, and the fact that she needed a reason to seek you out breaks you again. You're always welcome here, you assure her, blinking your own tears away.

You run your fingers through those soft brown locks and place a kiss on top of her head. She smells like thunder, but her hair is dry. You think that a storm might be coming up and it only seems fitting. When Rachel cries the heavens crack open. Nothing good can exist in a world where she's sad.

Your arms wrap fully around her shoulders and you tighten your grip on her. You're aching to ask what's wrong, but you don't want to push; you don't want to scare her off. It's still a little surreal that she's actually here, in your arms.

You only got to hold her once like this before, when you said goodbye on that day in the late summer of 2012 as you both left for college. That's when you knew you had missed your chance with her. She was going to New York with Finn, not with you. You thought of it as the end of the world back then and yes, a lot has changed. But the world is still turning and somehow all it took was a few short journeys around the sun to bring her back to you. You only wish her tears were those of joy.

Her hands clasp tightly at the back of your blouse. She feels so small and weak, so fragile in your arms. You think of all those posters and magazines and photos you've seen, the ones which make her seem tough and dainty, sexy and glamorous, joyful and proud. There's not a lot left of that person right now. She softens with every sob as if they are peeling off layer by layer. Tough comes off first; next follows glamorous; then proud. What remains is the tiny remnant of someone you once called a diva. She feels real now. She feels like what you imagined she'd feel like back in high school, like you imagined she'd feel after a slushie had hit her and she'd run off to dry her face from ice and tears. You were too much of a coward to comfort her then. In a twisted way you're happy that you get to do that now.

You're always welcome here, you repeat for her and for you. Your stomach turns and twists and you kiss her head again in an attempt to soothe her pain as well as yours.

Finally she steps back and sniffs and wipes at her eyes before taking off her coat. Uncertain where to put it she bites her lip to keep it from trembling too hard as her eyes search the room. When you finally remember how to move you take the piece of clothing from her.

Here, you say, have a seat. I'll make you some tea.

You offer her tissues and lead her to the couch before setting up the kettle.

When you re-emerge from the kitchen, balancing two cups of chai latte with soy vanilla milk - which you remember is her favorite - she's pressed into one corner of your white three seat leather couch. She has her knees pulled up to her chin and barely looks up at you when you hand her one of the cups. The little hairs at her hairline are frizzy and you know she hates it as much as you think it's cute. Her cheeks are flushed and almost as pink as her eyes are red and swollen. Her lashes glisten and her eyes shine darker than you've ever seen them before.

Thanks, she says, her voice just above a whisper.

You sit down next to her and wonder how it's possible for someone to dominate a stage like she does and then slump her shoulders and take so little space on a simple couch. She's always been small, but never tiny like this. Like she's trying to vanish.

She asks if she can stay a few nights and you answer she can stay however long she wants.

If she wanted she could stay forever, but of course, you don't tell her that.

You don't say anything after that. You just sit there next to her, watch her cradle her cup and inhale the scent of her tea. You'd smile if you weren't so sad for her.

When she lifts her head to look at you a fresh shiver of tears overwhelms her and her whole body starts to shake. I'm sorry, she sobs and that's when you feel tears running down your own cheeks, too. You set both your cups aside and open your arms for her again. She takes the invitation and falls against you; she closes her eyes and buries her fingers in the cloth of your shirt and hides her face in the crook of your neck.

Don't be. You can always come to me. Always.

You don't know how much time has passed when she starts to breathe evenly. She doesn't move and neither do you. She's comfortable in your embrace and whatever you thought your life was like before, you now know you were wrong. Nothing has ever been real until this moment with her in your arms. And you delve into this feeling; your heart bursts open to welcome her back. Years have passed and they couldn't separate you, couldn't destroy that bond between the two of you.

Is it ok if I don't want to talk for a while, she asks, and her voice is so soft. You want to somehow track back that path she took to come here and pick up the pieces of confidence she must have lost on her way; you want to give her back that voice that can enchant crowds, the voice that worked its magic on you even when you hated her. You could despise her, hurt her, ignore her, but you could only ever love her voice.

You ask her if she's hungry and her stomach responds with a growl. She hesitantly lets go of you when you get up to prepare a quick dinner.

She's back in your arms in no time. It's different now that she's calmed down and you've realized she's really here. She doesn't hold on to you as if her life depends on it. Instead she leans into you, rests her head on your shoulder and plays with the hem your shirt. You don't think she realizes she's doing it.

And it should feel awkward, but it doesn't. Not at all.

It's been a long time since anyone held me, she whispers, and you get an idea what this could be about, but don't comment. Your mind is spinning with secret hopes that you'll never allow to bubble to the surface. Instead you give her shoulder a little squeeze with the hand you've swung around her to press her against you. It's a silent promise that you'll hold her whenever she needs to be held.

.

Her luggage arrives two days later. Her dads sent it.

You go to auditions and meetings with your agent and a writing class you decided would broaden your horizons, so you're not home a lot. When you get back it's already dark and she's prepared dinner and looks at you with a mixture of sadness and adoration and gratitude. It breaks your heart not being able to ask her what brought her here, but you promised. Instead you give her a hug and compliment the scent coming from the kitchen.

She's here, without Finn, just for you and for herself. You're not going to press your luck.

I'm so proud of you, she says at the eve of day number three, looking up from her zucchini risotto. You crease your eyebrows in confusion and look at her, waiting for her to continue.

Her confession that she's followed your career as well makes your heart jump a little and suddenly you know what she's so proud of. Your cheeks burn when she says how brave you are for coming out to the press, America, everyone.

It wasn't an easy decision to make and it wasn't an easy journey. For an entire year you didn't receive any job offers. Lesbians aren't attractive to our target audience, they said. Even your PR asked you to change your statement into a coming out as sexually fluid. Being undefined is not only acceptable for an actress, it is preferable. You're young and pretty and so very feminine. You're not Ellen DeGeneres and men will be disappointed to find out they don't have a shot with you. Their words, not yours.

It was then that you realized high school never really ends. It was then that you realized you've been through too much to live your old life all over again. It was then that you realized it was time to finally be someone, no matter the consequences.

Calling Santana was the obvious thing to do. She'd survived being outed to the entire state before she was ready. No Brittany could mend that; no friends could undo that; no Finn could sing that away. But she graduated high school as a stronger, better person and despite the rivalry between you two you came to love her again as your best friend.

Is this about Berry, she asked, and you snorted into the phone. She may be a bitch, but her ability to see through people has always been astonishing. Not exclusively, you admitted, and there was silence on her end of the line for a while.

You'll have to face a lot of crap. There'll always be people who hate you for who you are. Don't do it if you can't deal with that. But since you told me, I guess you've already made your decision anyway.

She's proud of you, too.

I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Rachel says, and you admit that you had wished for her to be there. Of course, another part of you is glad you didn't have to see her being with Finn during your struggles.

That same part of you remembers this one day after Cheerios practice back in junior year when you went back to your car and found her leaning against it. You didn't understand that the tingles in your stomach weren't anger and you didn't know what really caused your urge to avert your gaze whenever her dark eyes sought out for you. When you found her leaning against your car that day all you could think was that she made you feel wrong. She made you feel uneasy. She made your skin itch and your throat go dry and your head spin and it was infuriating and so frustrating. As soon as she saw you approaching her she stepped away from the vehicle as if it was on fire. She bit her lip and asked you a question you can't recall. You probably never heard it, because that day, that damned fateful glorious day, your brain switched off and your body acted on its own accord. And it launched forward and it grabbed Rachel's neck and it pressed its lips to hers and the next four seconds you remember better than anything else in the world.

You remember how her breathe caught and her fingers twitched against your arms, first squeezing lightly, then pushing you away. You remember how she parted her lips and how one kiss became two and how you've never tasted anything like her, before or since. You remember how wide her eyes were when you parted and how she looked at you, open and with something that you now know was pure shock, but not the disgust you mistook it for back then. You hyperventilated. You stuttered. You ran. You ran all the way home. And then you made new plans to torture her out of your mind again.

You think that maybe this all had to happen. Maybe you could only grow strong without her, even though seeing her again someday had always been part of the plan. And the journey that you took was fruitful, healthy. Only because you took this path alone are you now able to hold Rachel in your arms without shattering into pieces.

I'm glad you're here now, you tell her and she smiles.

You've moved on, battled your way through the labyrinth and fired two agents on the road, but you'd sacrifice anything except yourself – and maybe her. It's tough on some days, tougher on others, easier on most nowadays. You're as happy as you think one can be.

So when you look at Rachel – your Rachel – Rachel who's always been a part of you and will probably always be – you mean your words. You are glad, so glad, that she's here.

I should have called or… her words die on her tongue when she sees you shake your head.

You're still my friend, you let her know. She smiles again and you finish your dinner.

.

Three more days pass until she breaks it to you.

He pushed me, she almost whispers, setting aside the cup of coffee in her hand. The words seem to physically hurt her, like saying it out loud would make her experience it all over again.

It was a simple argument, one like many they had before. You remember how vicious Finn's words could be sometimes and you remember how he almost flipped you out of your wheelchair at senior prom. You remember how Santana told you about what he did to her, how he called her a coward, poking his sausage fingers into her biggest insecurity.

Santana almost shattered to pieces then and she ran. She ran and hid and you and Brittany spent an entire day searching for her. She couldn't go home and face her parents. She couldn't seek Brittany out when her cowardice had almost destroyed their relationship. She couldn't talk to you, because you weren't supposed to know.

Eventually you found her in the park on a swing. It was obvious that she had spent the day running. Running away, running without an aim. She was sweaty and dirty and her eyes were so dark you almost started to cry for her, too.

Of course that was before that damn ad revealed her secret to the rest of Ohio.

At least at that point she already knew you had her back. Not much of a consolation, but this time she had someone to run to instead of from. She shattered in Brittany's arms before your eyes and it felt like you were destroyed just the same.

You never judged her for slapping Finn.

You don't think Rachel knows any of this, because you never told her. It was between him and you or Santana and him and of course, Finn never told Rachel any of that, either. He's always been good at arguing his own flaws away and pointing fingers at other people instead.

She tears up again when she tells you how they both got angry over literally nothing; how she yelled and how he finally lost it and pushed her; how she stumbled backwards and crashed into the cupboard behind her. How he just turned away and didn't apologize for hurting her.

She had been yelling at him, after all. Totally uncalled for.

It was just a little push anyway.

And she's crazy, that much he'd been telling her since before they became a couple.

You're angry. You imagine his giant paws grabbing her petite shoulders and pushing forcefully against her body. You imagine how he underestimates his strength, overestimates hers, how his face turns red and hers turns pale. You imagine the second before the push, how realization hits her and how she can't do anything about what's happening; how she takes a step back and closes her eyes; how small she must have felt. You imagine how her back collides with the furniture and you imagine the bruises on her back and the pain in her chest. You imagine what a breach of trust that must be for her and you want to hurt him, too. You imagine her breaking down in her own home with no one to comfort her.

It's like he's physically hurting you, too.

Rachel, you gasp and grab her hand.

She gulps. I'm ok, she responds. But it was the last straw. I'm never going back to him.

Her dads had picked her up immediately, packed her things for her and ensured she never had to see Finn again. You make a mental note to thank them if you get the chance.

That night she sleeps in your bed, wrapped in your arms. She kisses your cheek and thanks you for everything.

I wish I could give you something in return.

But you just kiss her cheek as well, right below that birthmark you love so much. You don't want her to give you anything, because she's giving you so much already, just by being right here right now. You tell her that and for a second you wonder if it's too much. If that'll scare her off.

It doesn't, though. She scoots closer and kisses your cheek again and you don't think you've ever felt anything remotely like happiness before this moment.


	2. Chapter 2

I haven't just come here because of Finn.

You're eating dinner - vegan lasagna - when Rachel tells you she's mostly here because she really wanted to see you. You can't help the smile on your face when you say how glad you are that she's here.

She's decided to take a whole month off, or maybe two. Maybe three. You thought her coping strategy would be to bury herself in work, but the Rachel you once knew has changed. She's more laid back now, calm, mature. She doesn't ramble the way she used to, and breathes now instead. In your head it was her high school sweetheart holding her back from that kind of progress. Now it's almost as if she's physically grown.

She's gotten rid of a burden the size of a football player.

Her plan for the next couple of weeks is to treat herself, to kick back, drink a lot of tea and spend time with someone she meant to visit for ages – that's you, of course. She wants time to recover.

You offer her to take her time to find an apartment of her own. You don't want her to rent a place she doesn't really like just because she doesn't have anywhere to go.

I meant what I said, you assure her. You can stay as long as you want.

She gives you a small nod and a shy smile.

I'm really happy we're still friends, Quinn. I missed you.

.

So Rachel's moved in with you, huh?

You missed Santana's teasing smirk. It's one of her most genuine expressions. One she reserves for close friends.

She gestures for you to give her a hug and you smirk back before leaning in. When you still lived in New Haven the two of you used to make time to meet up. Moving to New York and living closer to each other made that seem redundant, so now you see each other only very occasionally, on coffee dates like this one.

Nope, not done yet, she insists and hugs you tighter as soon as you loosen your grip. You chuckle quietly and place your chin back on her shoulder.

Of course you keep in touch via phone. You can't imagine life without her. And as much as she pretends to be a distant bitch, she also loves you very much.

She's already gotten her latte and you order one as well. She takes a sip and raises one eyebrow.

Give me all the details, she demands. My life's boring. I need some gossip.

You purse your lips and comment that there's not much to tell. Rachel's not living with me, you correct Santana, she's just staying with me until she's found an apartment of her own. It's good to have her back in my life, though.

You tell her what there is to know, about the reason why Rachel decided to take a break from work and seek you out. When you're finished Santana lets out a short whistle and nods tersely.

You know that I've never been a big fan of the dork, she says and you're almost taken aback by how lovingly that nickname sounds, but no one deserves that kind of treatment.

She takes another sip from her coffee and mumbles a few insults about Finn into her cup, then shakes her head.

I wonder why everyone is such an idiot in high school. She rolls her eyes and the disbelief about her own actions is palpable. I can't believe I ever thought I should forgive that douche bag. He's been a bigger bully than me and that really says something.

The next few sentences are Spanish.

You lower your gaze and grin towards the table. You really missed hanging out with your bestie. Santana's still the spitfire she was in school and she's not afraid to speak her mind, especially when her opinion's unpopular. Truth hurts, she likes to say. It's undeniable, though, that even Santana has grown up.

Her father wanted her to follow into his footsteps and become a doctor, but the future she had in mind didn't involve working with her hands. You remember very vividly the conversation you two had when it was time to pick a college.

Can you seriously picture me performing a surgery? With all the blood?

Her hands were up in the air and the expression on her face told you better not to interrupt.

Do I look like I care about anyone's weird rashes and sore throats? I'm a bitch and proudly so.

So, what are you going to do then? you asked, and you'll always remember the smile on her face that day. It was the HBIC smile, the one she used to have when you two came up with an evil plan to torture freshmen or manipulate boys. The moment you saw the determined glint in her eyes you knew whatever she was thinking, she'd go through with it and it would be awesome.

I'm going to do what I do best, she stated. I'll use my outstanding ability to tear other people down and make a whole lot of money out of it.

I'm going to be a lawyer.

Looking at her now there's no doubt in your mind she's made the right decision. Her back is straight and she holds her chin high. Her black pantsuit and matching heels make her look as fierce as ever. She wears her hair down - the perfect soft touch to her otherwise tight outfit. It's just enough to make her clients believe she's still human.

You've never seen her more self-confident. You're in awe.

He's still the popular jock, Santana grumbles. Nothing more. After all this time he hasn't learned a thing and it's just because everybody has always been so very understanding. You have heard of the concept of specific deterrence, right? (You haven't.) I'm so glad I broke contact with him during college.

She stops herself with a foolish grin when she sees you smiling widely at her.

It's true, though, she finishes her monologue and squares her shoulders. He made me feel small despite everything I achieved. No one should feel that way.

It's your turn to nod in agreement. Finn definitely does that to the people around him.

Just make sure he doesn't show up on your doorstep, or you'll have their relationship drama in your apartment, too.

Your eyes widen, because you hadn't really thought about that before.

Santana sees your expression and adds that she doubts he's actually going to do that, but you decide to ask Rachel to talk to him anyway.

How's that for you? The whole situation? Santana asks.

It's amazing, you answer honestly, and feel a blush creep up your cheeks. I really missed having her in my life.

Santana looks at you for a second or two and she's just so herself. She's the only one who ever truly asks how you are and yet, she's still Snix as well.

Yea yea, but that's not what I was asking.

You know what she's talking about, of course, but that's a road you don't want to go down right now.

Look, you offer, I know it seems almost impossible after I spent my high school years going crazy over her, but you know what I've been through. You know how much has changed. I mean, you've been there with me. For now I just enjoy having her around, despite the circumstances.

Her features soften immediately. Of course, she agrees. I understand that. And I'm happy for you, even though that's completely boring. You know how much I could have used the second hand kick.

Her tone changes from snarky to soft and you bite your lip. Ever since she and Brittany broke up she's trying a little too hard to find a replacement. And even though Santana knows it doesn't work that way she can't help but continue.

You don't blame her.

Brittany was meant to be her girlfriend forever – her one and only true love. Turns out the miles between New York and Lima could separate them after all.

Brittany moved on, opened a dance studio with Mike somewhere in LA. Santana and she still call each other from time to time, simply because they've known each other forever. You talk to Brittany, too, sometimes. It's a little awkward, though, because of how close you and Santana are. It's silly, but it always feels like cheating. You were supposed to be the Unholy Trinity. And now you're Santana and Quinn or Brittany and Quinn instead.

It's not like Santana's sleeping around. That part of her vanished the moment she came out in high school. But now that she knows what love feels like, she craves that feeling and keeps searching for it everywhere. Unfortunately the blondes that cross her way now always lack of the kindness she needs in a relationship.

She's never quite managed to start over the way you wish she could.

First loves are a bitch, she declares before scraping a spoonful of foam from her cup. It's like we're destined to hurt.

We're also destined to get better, you state with a quirk in your eyebrow.

Santana's dimples indicate she's accepted the challenge.

You mean, because we can learn to love again, move on, find someone new? she muses sarcastically.

Or because we're not meant to be part of a whole?

Tell me, Quinn, are we supposed to hurt and get better, because all the love we should feel is the love for ourselves? Is that because relationships come and go, but we – as individuals – are whole the way we are?

She sets her cup aside and crosses her arms.

Yea, I've read those books. But I'm not a phoenix, you know. I can't rise from the ashes and I don't believe in the circle of destruction and reconstruction. The damage is done, and you can't take it back. You can only try to build something on top of it.

You're both quiet for a while. You think back to the summer before senior year, that time when you dyed your hair pink and made the awful decision to get a Ryan Seacrest tattoo. You think back to that skater you dated and how she was a good and a bad experience at the same time. You think of how you tried to move on without looking back – how that always brought you right back to where you started. Everything that happened lives and vibrates deep within you and every attempt to shake it off just got you deeper into trouble. It fills you with warmth – little hot sparks of memory, full of love and pain and resolution.

You think of how you tried to convince Rachel to let go of her relationship with Finn – how you told her to let go of her past and embrace the future. That never worked. Maybe Rachel knew it wouldn't work that way. Maybe that's why she didn't – couldn't - listen to you.

You think of Beth and your own scars start to itch. You and Santana both have been burned to the ground several times. Whenever you tried not to be consumed by the flames the fire grew hotter until there was nothing left to do but to surrender. Some things you just can't outrun. Maybe Rachel had to surrender to her very own fire, too, before finding the strength to break out and move on.

We've both been heartbroken, you say as you take Santana's hand. But we've been through worse and we survived. Do you really think of us as ashes?

Hell no, we're the top bitches of this city, she laughs. But, you know…

Yea, you do know. And you know it's time to change the subject.

Can I ask you, though, if you don't believe damage can ever be undone, then what's the appeal of seeking justice? What can you ever offer your clients?

Santana snorts into her cup and openly laughs at you as if that was the most ridiculous question she's ever been asked.

I don't believe in justice, she finally manages.

That makes you laugh loudly.

Says the lawyer?

Like I said, Santana explains, the damage is done. My clients won't ever get back what they lost. I even doubt that what they get is an adequate compensation. It's more of a gesture.

It's money, you correct her.

Yes, it is money, she agrees firmly.

You think back to what you used to call home. Once upon a time, you nod, I would've argued that money can compensate for anything, even a lack of justice. But like you said, it seems inadequate. What do you think your clients are searching for then? If it's not justice, I mean. Do they take the money and move on? Will that make them happy?

Happiness is such an overrated concept, Santana says with a half-smile and a shrug.

So what's the point in winning those cases then?, you ask.

She grins at you. Closure? Revenge? Money? Never underestimate a person's vanity.

You quirk your eyebrow and chuckle.

Me? Never.

.

Tell the dork I said 'hi'. And tell her something encouraging, but not too encouraging. Tell her that first loves are just that – a first. There'll be many more opportunities to be stuck in dead-end relationships in her future.

You think of Brittany and Artie and Tina. You think of The Brother's Lionheart, which you read at age four. You think of your first day at school and you think of Finn and Puck and that dress you wore at Frannie's graduation. You think of the first time you tasted alcohol, the kiss you shared with Santana that night; you think of your first party and the first step you took after your accident. You think of the sun and the moon and the tides; a flower losing all its petals and milk turning sour. There's a stale taste on your tongue.

Make it sound like something I could have said.

Santana kisses your cheek when you part.

We'll have to do this again. And soon.

You tell Rachel that Santana would like to catch up sometime.

.

So… are you seeing someone? Rachel asks you later at dinner. You look at her, pondering what to say besides the obvious no, and she grins. What? Don't you want to tell me? She's just teasing.

The truth is, of course, you're looking, although you have to admit that after your last break up you're not so dedicated to the search anymore. It's not that you don't want a relationship, it's more that you've had a bunch of those already and they never worked out, partly, but not exclusively, because of Rachel. You haven't spent your time pining over her; you've just been dealing with your issues.

You could tell yourself how much you've grown, how you've moved on. And all that is true. It just seems it was a little truer when she wasn't around. As long as you never had a chance to explore that tiny 'what if' you carried around with you, it was easy to simply live your life.

But here she is, living in your apartment, single, sleeping in your bed, sitting across the table and suddenly this tiny crack you've always left open for her, lingering way deep in the back of your head, has now opened just a little wider. You know it's not an option - that she's into guys, that she's just out of a relationship. In your mind you know all that. But when you look at her and see her smirk you find yourself smirking right back.

I'm single, you answer truthfully.

You don't even know why you're blushing. Maybe because most people react with pity?Or a promise that you'll find someone? Because being single is something to be ashamed of? Maybe it's because now she knows.

Me, too, she shrugs and you both laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you, **nolinkedlists**, for correcting flaws in grammar and thought.

I hope everyone's enjoying their Finchel-free summer! I sure am. I'm also enjoying PR!Murphy. Who is this guy and where has he been the entire time? I never thought I'd love the bridesmaids scene as much as I do.

Last but not least: The first line of chapter 1 is taken from the poem "**A poison tree**" by **William Blake**.

* * *

Finn tries to call Rachel sometimes. You're relieved each time she ignores him.

I'm through with him, she says after the fifteenth or so missed call within a week. In your opinion that's not a lot, but she says it doesn't matter how often he calls.

He never respected my boundaries then, but I just wish he'd at least respect them now. I told him no. I told him no and he ignores it.

You can hear the disappointment in her voice and lean over to place your hand on her shoulder. You deserve better than that, you tell her, and her face lights up a little.

Was he the reason why you stopped visiting?

You think about her question and yea, he was one reason. One giant homophobic hostile cockblock of a reason, but you can't possibly tell her that.

Partly, yes, you admit, and hope she doesn't think you were just jealous the whole time.

But I also had stuff to figure out.

And you've done so great, she nods in understanding.

You think of all the times she wasn't there and your stomach turns. Yes, you've done great and your journey was necessary. But it was also painful, and a part of you, just for a brief moment, wishes you'd have been outed in High School like Santana. At least she got to be with Britt.

You shake the horrible thought away as quickly as it popped into your head. Of course you didn't want to be outed. You're not Santana. You weren't strong like her. You had other things to deal with. You didn't have your family's support. You couldn't have survived that.

You would've done something stupid.

Why did you stop calling, though? you ask.

It's not like you told her to stay away. It's not like you actually meant to break off contact altogether. A part of you always wondered what she was thinking the entire time, if she ever thought of you.

Another part is afraid of the answer.

She bites her lip and averts her eyes. I'm sorry, she says, but that's not what you wanted to hear.

Just tell me, you insist. You force your voice to stay calm, even though your insides are burning. You're not ready for whatever she has to say. At the same time you need to hear this. You need to know.

She slowly breathes in and hesitates. She opens her mouth a couple of times and each time she can't bring herself to say the words your worries grow. What could be so bad that she can't tell you?

I felt like there was some kind of… barrier between us.

She pauses and you listen.

I could sense that you were retreating, that you were hiding something from me. And I guess I was disappointed that we never talked about that time in the parking lot.

Now you avert your eyes.

That time you kissed me.

This time you don't interrupt her when she apologizes and says that it isn't like her to back off like that. But you have to admit that her instincts were right. As always. Rachel Berry's instincts regarding you have never failed. She knows you like she knows every song from every Broadway musical. She knows you like she knows her own voice. She can read you like she reads notes and she can play you like a finely tuned instrument. When she decided to leave you alone it was in order not to break your strings.

And she knows that she knows all that. She knew it long before you considered her a friend. You used to push her away for exactly that reason. You used to hate her for seeing right through you.

As you can see, though, I never stopped thinking about you. I'm here.

You smile at that and feel the tips of your ears start to burn. Yea, she's here. Years have passed and you broke contact, but the moment her relationship failed you were the person she ran to. Your chest swells with pride and happiness.

Back in school you were the popular cheerleader. You were the blonde pretty girl everyone envied – the leader of your very own pack. Or so it seemed.

In reality your power was limited to tearing down freshmen girls and trading your body for favors. Your father didn't raise you to lead. He raised you to obey – obey the rules of the conservative 1950's society he and his upper class colleagues revived over a glass of whiskey and Cuban cigars.

You remember hugging your pillow tightly to your chest, hearing their bragging voices ascending upstairs through the door to your room, hoping you wouldn't be called down and shown off like a toy again. Out of all your father's projects, you were both his favorite and his most flawed.

You remember wondering why they'd always raise their voices when you were taught to be always quiet. You remember wondering what they were so afraid of that it needed to be yelled away, laughed away, drunk away.

You remember how well it worked. Their voices silenced yours. Always.

You hid behind your cheerleading uniform like an armor. You hid behind your dad and his orders. You hid behind the certainty that you'd follow your mom's footsteps and become an even greater nothing after school. You hid in the darkness of your room.

Yea, you were popular, so popular in fact that Finn Hudson, quarterback – that's important to add, because he wasn't really anything else when you first met him – approached you the first day you paraded around your newly earned title of head cheerleader, and asked you out.

But you never had real friends besides Santana and Brittany. And those you were unable to recognize as such.

Why did you, though? Rachel interrupts your train of thought. Kiss me, I mean.

You swallow hard and touch your neck with the tip of your fingers. There's no cross to weigh you down. There's no armor to shield you from your thoughts.

I'm not sure. I guess, because I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't even supposed to be friends with you.

You inhale deeply, remembering that you're here now, not back in Lima.

I wasn't really supposed to be friends with anyone.

Rachel furrows her eyebrows, contemplating for a second. Her eyes are open, so wide open, always. She was raised without fear, only love, and you envy and admire her all the same.

So you didn't have a crush on me?

She's not confused. She's just seeking clarification. Your face suddenly feels hot and your mind is wiped clean.

No. I mean, maybe. Yes?

You're actually not sure. All the heavy feelings came later, with Beth.

But Rachel remains patient. She's not laughing at your blubbering. She doesn't even blink, just smiles reassuringly.

Look, I was so occupied with everything else I went through, that I didn't exactly have time to figure out my emotions. I was supposed to marry Finn or Puck or any boy. I was supposed to be a straight A student and go to church every Sunday. I was supposed to be mean to you – to people like you.

You wince at your choice of words. Rachel doesn't.

She just nods in understanding. You're not even surprised by her lack of reaction. Any insult that could have been thrown at her has already been thrown at her - by you. She knows exactly what kind of people you're talking about.

I guess I did have a crush on you, you conclude. But I didn't really feel it. I couldn't.

You squint and think hard how to make yourself clear. You want to be precise about this, help her understand. You weren't allowed to have an identity. You weren't loved. How were you ever supposed to think about complicated and irrelevant things like sexual orientation? Weren't boys supposed to tell you what you are?

Can you understand that a little?

She opens her mouth once, then again, and finally settles for a half-smile and another nod.

Your eyes are fixed on your hands resting in your lap. It's been a long time since you felt this vulnerable. It's like you're coming out all over again; but you already figured that that process never really ends.

Still, the lump in your throat is thick and heavy and your breathing has become shallow. You already feel the threat of the old Quinn – the emotionally detached ice queen – breathing down your neck. It's time to deflect.

The moment Rachel sees the glint in your eyes her smile becomes a full on grin.

What?

You straighten your back and lean a little closer, like a school girl about to share a secret.

I also kissed Santana, you know.

.

A couple of hours later you're sitting on your bed with the 'baby box', as you call it. There are a few pictures of Beth that you haven't gotten around to putting in your album, yet. There's a lock of her hair from when you and Shelby took her to get her first hair cut. There's a sock, light blue and tiny. Some gorgeous crayon doodles. You even have one of her baby teeth.

When you got pregnant you thought you'd die, or worse: be nothing but a mom and slowly decompose day by day, having only the nagging voices in your head to keep you company. You imagined your future life to be the slowest, most painful death anyone has ever suffered. Your dad's reaction was barely a shock to you.

Turns out the ultimate proof of your failure was actually the first person to love you unconditionally. The first person you allowed yourself to love back. You remember her scent that day in the hospital when you first got to hold her. So sweet, so perfect, so her. You remember her warmth and how for the first time ever you felt at home. You remember the universe staring at you through wide eyes – hazel like yours – and how you cried from joy, because there it was – a future. It was life itself welcoming you, gripping your hair, demanding you to be alive, to never give up. In a way, Beth gave birth to you, too.

And then Shelby took her away and disappeared for almost an entire year.

Now you've worked on being in Beth's life. You're not her mom. You're Quinn. And you're very happy with that.

Shelby and you found a way to coexist. You don't love her, but ever since you told her you know about her and Puck she's been extremely nice to you. She's good to Beth and for that you're grateful. You can tell she's really trying to be a good mom and that it has nothing to do with the fact you threatened to send Santana if she ever pulled something like an immoral (and illegal as Santana assured you) affair again.

She loves Beth almost as much as you do. It's almost enough to forgive her.

The day before Beth's first day at school you had a talk with Shelby, a speech you prepared for this occasion and which you still have memorized:

No matter how she does in school, you said, you can't show your disappointment. Encourage her to do the things she loves and help her in the subjects she's not good at. She can never, and I mean never, doubt her abilities. She can never think of herself as flawed. I want you to teach her that it's ok to make mistakes – that everybody makes plenty. Tell her that without mistakes no one would get the chance to improve. She needs to know you're there, always. And when she messes up she'll still have a home. Every time she confesses a failure – be it a bad grade or a lie she told or something that she did – I want you to tell her how much you love her.

Tell her she doesn't have to be jealous of other people's talents, because their skills don't lessen hers. Encourage her to be kind. And finally, if she's lucky enough to meet a person who enriches her life in a way she never thought possible, tell her to open her heart and her arms and her home to them – she can never be afraid to love.

Shelby gulped and nodded quietly. Then she launched forward and pulled you close. It was the only hug you ever shared.

There's a soft knock on your door and without closing your box again you tell Rachel to come in. When she sees you're occupied she starts shuffling backwards, but you pat the space next to you and she seems glad to take the invitation.

Oh god, Quinn, she looks just like you!

It's remarkable how easily Rachel does that – how she makes you grow and illuminate with just one simple sentence. You feel so light in her presence, almost safe; definitely comfortable. She's always been full of compliments for you. Admittedly, everyone has, but they never sounded right. Every kind word directed toward you had been a threat, because you knew _they_ only ever loved your shell, not you. They loved your hair, not you. They loved your voice, sweet like honey, not you. They loved your manners and the swiftness in your step. They loved your elegance and your ability to speak when spoken to and to remain silent when ignored. They loved your divine face – the one your parents bought you years ago. Every compliment demanded for you not to change, not to grow, not to be.

With Rachel it's different. Her words are sincere. Always have been. You lashed out at her, she scolded and forgave you. Just like that. You went crazy, she gave you back your sanity. You cried, she gave you comfort. You ran to hide, she followed. You pushed her away and she always came back. She kept insisting that there's more to you than what the eye can see, and at the same time she always made sure to appreciate your beauty, too. She was your anchor to reality and she was your hope. She was your conscience, too.

Where she got the strength for that, you'll never know.

She does, you all but whisper.

Rachel scoots closer, but doesn't touch anything, even though you can see her fingers twitch in restraint.

She's just as beautiful as you are, she says quietly.

You bite your lip. No, you think. I will never be _that_ beautiful. No one will ever even come close to Beth.

And then you remember something that you never told Rachel. Something you should have told her years ago.

_You're_ beautiful, you simply state, without looking up (you can't). At least you manage not to blush and your voice remains steady. You don't mean it as a declaration of love and you hope she doesn't take it that way.

Back in college the first time you used that metro north ticket to visit Rachel, the first time you met as real friends with the chance to start fresh, you sat her down and you apologized for treating her the way you did. But Rachel, in her physical inability to hold a grudge, just waved you off.

Nonsense, Quinn, she shook her head. We're past that.

You couldn't offer her a proper explanation for your bullying. You couldn't even say what it really was that you did. So instead you took the easy way out and accepted her truce.

Now that you've gained some clarity, though, that's not enough anymore. You want to take it back, make her feel good about herself; make sure she knows how you really see her – that you never truly believed your own poison.

I'm sorry that I made you feel like you're not. I wanted to keep myself from thinking you might be beautiful. I didn't want to want to be your friend. I'm sorry I let it out on you.

This time you look her straight in the eyes and although you feel your bottom lip quiver dangerously, you don't cry. The truth is that you blame yourself for beating her down so badly that it drove her to think she couldn't do better than Finn – that no one else could love her. Somewhere lingering in the old Quinn's dark mind lies the thought that your pushing her into his arms led to him pushing her into that cupboard.

She always made sure you knew you were perfect. You always made sure to never return the favor (you couldn't). It would have sounded gay.

You made yourself believe that she could take it. She's strong, right? She was strong enough to stand up to you. She beat your vicious shell. That's a lot more than you could say about yourself back then.

She smiles, and she doesn't wave off your kindness this time.

Thank you, she whispers. Thank you, Quinn.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Happy Birthday to me. Here's my present to you.

* * *

_And my foe beheld it shine; and he knew that it was mine_

.

You've never been a very affectionate person.

Maybe it's because your parents didn't hug you unless they wanted something from you. Your mom would comb your hair to tell you about your destiny – how you'd inherit the plastic kingdom and live happily ever after if you behaved. Your dad would cup your cheek to let you know how small you were – your soft cheek in his rough hands.

You don't know for sure, but you suspect no one's ever truly held you, not even when you were a baby. Sometimes you think about what that really means, not just to you, but in general. Every child, no matter how independent, no matter how distant or stubborn, wants to know that it's loved by its parents. It's this relentless longing for a love that can never be replaced.

When your parents kicked you out for getting pregnant at age sixteen you were angry. You were so angry at the world and Puck and stupid Finn and yourself. You were angry at your dad for not listening to you. You were angry at your mom for letting him have his way, always. You were so angry, because being angry was easier than being hurt. You think that out of all the damage people can inflict, denying your child the safety and comfort of a loving home is the cruelest. Your life was in their hands and they let you down. You depended on them and they shut you out.

It wasn't until the moment you held Beth in your arms, though, that you truly understood the depth of this injury. From the first second on it was impossible not love Beth, even for you. You were too young to be a parent, too young for that kind of responsibility. You hadn't even figured yourself out at that point. And yet you knew, even though you didn't really know anything, that you were holding more than just a child. In your arms slept another life, a person who trusted you implicitly. She wiped your mind clean of anger and pain; she washed away your desperation. She felt like a part of you immediately – that's a love forever embedded into your heart and soul.

It makes you wonder sometimes. You grew up not knowing what love really is and yet your wish to keep Beth safe exceeded every selfish desire. If this raw emotion – a pure basic instinct, almost a physical need – is so strong, then how was it possible for your parents to treat you so wrong?

How could you?

It's a question you tried to ask many times, well knowing how futile it was to even bother. The guilty look on your mother's face along with her apologies failed to mend the wounds she inflicted.

You're not angry anymore. You're not even hurt. You simply don't understand.

And you don't think you ever will.

To touch another person has never felt quite natural. You knew you could use it to manipulate and scheme. You could fake affection and friendship; you could event fake love. You could make others believe you were alive – but you never truly were.

Your body was a machine, a shell made out of flesh, customized so it would trap your mind perfectly. It carried you through the day. But it was just that – a lifeless object that didn't truly belong to you. Doctors could change your appearance, cutting away unwanted growths, unpleasant features. It was easy to upgrade yourself. No matter what happened to the skin you were wrapped into, you always felt the same – like a rotten unwanted little piece of trash, waiting to be disposed off or traded in for something more valuable.

So it didn't make a difference how boys looked at that upgraded robotic shell of yours. Their sleazy gossip and leering weren't directed at you, only your flesh. You could exchange touches for favors; let them have a look or two. You could let them see you smile. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Maybe it's because you've always just felt stitched together rather than born that a touch never truly meant anything to you. You sometimes wondered if there's a corrective surgery for that and how much it'd cost to fix yourself.

You can only guess that your mother was feeling the same way. Where you fell into the symptoms of the disease called life, she tried to cure herself with alcohol and painkillers. It kept her shell intact for the remainder of her marriage.

You're glad that you both found a way to break apart, peel off the machine and let your wounds breathe so they could start to heal. She's still working on it with a therapist. It's taken a lifetime to beat her down. It's going to take another to build her back up.

You're not as close as you wish you were. She's trying, though. She really is. And you want to love her so much more than you do. She reaches out and you stumble backwards out of reflex. Maybe it's because you never learned to love her like a mom. Maybe it's because you don't really love her as a person. Maybe it's because you do love her with all your heart, but the barrier your father beat into both of you to keep you apart still stands strong on most days.

Maybe it's because you don't understand.

.

Rachel is different.

She loves physical contact. She loves to cuddle and to hold your hand and she loves to hug you. She loves to be held and she loves to rest her head on your shoulder. She touches you as much as possible and it's so strange, because there's no hidden motive behind her actions. When she touches your arm it's not to convince you of something. When she cuddles closer while watching a movie it's not, because she wants to own you.

It's almost impossible for you to believe anybody would want that kind of connection with you without actually wanting anything from you.

Your ex-girlfriends, even though they loved you, couldn't make you feel this way; like they liked you for you.

You know it's not even their fault. They only ever knew the new Quinn – the pretty lesbian with unknown issues and a mysterious past. They knew Quinn's face, but not Lucy's. No matter how much you wanted to, you always failed to trust that they wouldn't run away eventually.

Santana's tough exterior prohibits her from getting too close to you as well. She shows her love with sincere words instead.

You remember how you got up from your wheelchair at prom and how she held you during your performance together. You remember how taken aback you were by that gesture and how you had to fight back your tears. Never before had anyone done something like that for you – aided you just because they could. And it hasn't happened since.

But Rachel, she knows you inside out. She knows who you were and she knows who you are and yet, she still wants to know you more. Her eyes search your face when she thinks you're not looking, and you feel her scanning you, trying to understand every last piece of you. It's so uplifting and so excruciating at the same time. You don't know how to react to this. You don't know what to make of her actions. You don't know how to trust and you don't know how to keep this door into your past shut so you don't fall head over heels in love with her.

You feel like all that's holding this crack shut is a thin thread made of cotton.

Accepting a compliment is almost harder for you to accept than a touch. That's why you could never fully trust anybody when they told you they liked you.

Yea?

That was the usual answer you gave them. Sometimes it'd sound sarcastic. Other times it'd just sound weak. You probably made a lot of people feel admonished and you curse yourself for paying forward this poisonous gift your parents gave you.

So each time Rachel compliments you you're dangerously close to ripping open and falling apart, because you know she means it. With her you never have to ask.

You're afraid of what that might unleash. You're afraid you might just tell her that you love her. You're afraid you'll scare her off with bitterness.

Maybe it's not real anyway. Maybe you're making yourself believe. She almost married the quarterback years before she was ready, just to prove she's better than everyone thought she is – just to show everyone that she's got more than the talent she was mocked for, that she was desirable, too. Even though she was at the other end of the high school hierarchy, popularity mattered to her just as much as it mattered to you. No one escapes the traps of objectification.

Maybe you're just as much of a trophy to her as Finn was.

It'd make sense. You were the most popular girl at school and even though Rachel was the better person, you know there was a time in which she envied you. She wanted to be pretty like you. She wanted your boyfriend. She wanted your grace. She wanted your crown.

You can't help but laugh at the fact that you tried to give her all that. You resented her, called her names, and yet, everything you did in hindsight seems like an attempt to switch places with her. She wanted Finn, you gave him to her. She wanted your nose, you made a doctor's appointment. She wanted your popularity, you gave her the title of prom queen. She wanted your friendship and you failed to say no. You would have given her everything and more and you never even understood why.

Did she manipulate you after all?

.

When you come home from work you hear light sobbing from the guest room. Your heart sinks. It's a good thing that she's mourning the end of her relationship, but it still hurts to hear her cry.

You knock and crack open the door to find the room entirely dark. But Rachel sniffles and asks you to lie down with her.

Am I not lovable?

You wrap her into your arms and kiss her head. She buries her face into your shoulder and your chest suddenly feels heavy enough to weigh you both down, tie you to the darkness of the room.

Of course you are.

Touching Rachel never feels wrong. It doesn't feel like an obligation and it doesn't feel like a trade. It's not about giving or taking or bargaining who gets what. You hold her and she sinks into your embrace and it fits.

Yea?

She sniffles again and sits up to look at you.

It's just that no one but Finn ever loved me and he pushed me and I don't know how to deal with that.

You want to tell her that he did a lot of things that are worse. You want to tell her that he doesn't know how to love anyone but himself. You want to tell her what a selfish idiot he is.

Finn's an idiot, you say. And you _are _lovable. Remember how I tried to keep you from marrying Finn?

She nods.

I told you I admire you. I admired you for everything you are. I still do. You were everything I wanted to be. You're smart and ambitious. You're kind and forgiving. You're not afraid to love. You even loved me, although I made your life hell. I know you think people only love you because you can sing, but the truth is that they love you as a person, too.

You take her hand and she wipes away her tears.

Santana doesn't love me, Rachel comments, but she's smiling again already. You feel the corners of your own lips twitch.

Yes she does, you counter. In her own way.

Do _you_ love me?

Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest and you gulp before remembering yourself. She's broken and she needs you now. You were never able to say no to her, not back in high school and surely not now. You want to give her this.

So you keep your face from flinching and you keep your hands from shaking and you remind yourself that she's asking you as a friend. There's no danger in that.

You look her straight in the eyes and push all the complicated worries away, let them make way for the truth.

Of course I love you.

.

Maybe it's because she's the only one who's ever been nice to you without demanding you pay her back. Maybe it's because you feel like an idiot suspecting her of anything but kindness. Maybe it's because after all this time it's your opinion that matters to her. Maybe it's because her touches are as unconditional as her compliments that it's like she's not just touching your skin.

She's touching you.


	5. Chapter 5

Are you going back to Lima for Thanksgiving?

You take one more look at your reflection. These past four weeks have been an emotional whirlwind and sometimes you feel like it's all going too fast. It's blinding; like you've been pulled into something that you fail to grasp. Like you're rushing backwards. Maybe that's what traveling at the speed of light feels like.

Rachel moves through your apartment as if it were her own home and it's amazing and bitter at the same time. Because it is her home. Now. But it won't be forever. Eventually she'll move out, move on, and how often you'll see each other after that is entirely uncertain. You stare at yourself and hope she won't see how terrified you are.

The prospect of seeing your mom next weekend is not exactly uplifting, either. There's too much she simply doesn't get. You talk and she listens and nods and smiles and every time you manage to be satisfied with how the conversation is going she says something that reminds you just how much she doesn't understand. It's draining, spending time with her. It's exhausting, but not as much as avoiding her would be.

I am, you answer Rachel's question, stepping out of the bathroom. She's putting in some earrings that match her eyes and smiles at you and – god – she's gorgeous.

You don't sound too happy, she states and you don't fail to hear the question mark. But instead of a response you slump into the couch and breathe out a long sigh.

Rachel is still whirling around, getting ready for a super important shopping trip. Being on a working break doesn't mean she's not going to make a spectacle of every time she leaves the house. If you were a star like her you'd probably do the same, although you'd refrain from wearing those killer heels she loves that make your spine hurt even looking at them.

Only when she sits down next to you do you realize that you've indeed been frowning the entire time. You shrug and rub your forehead, trying to get rid of the wrinkles.

Rachel bumps your shoulder with hers.

You know I'll be the last person to say something inappropriate like 'You have to honor your parents.' or 'Quinn, she's your mom!' I have a very alternative family situation of my own as you'll surely recall and my mom is, well… I suppose you know her better than I do.

She sighs and shakes her head briefly.

But I want you to be happy and I know you'd just regret not seeing your mom for Thanksgiving, so I'm giving you a piece of advice I've heard quite a lot during my time at NYADA: Suck it up and power through.

The seriousness on her face and the finger pointing into your direction just make you chuckle that much harder. It's relieving to know she's still Rachel after all.

.

It takes you three attempts to ring the bell.

It takes Judy not ten seconds to open the door and pull you in a bone crushing hug.

Oh Quinnie, how have you been?

You're still her little girl, despite everything; even despite the fact that you're no little girl anymore.

You assure her that you're doing great and engage in a little chit chat about the new chairs she bought and how wonderful the garden looks with the new bed of roses.

The house is big and empty and your voices echo through the hallway. The familiarity of everything should make you feel warm, nostalgic or – gosh – happy. Instead your back straightens automatically and your breath becomes shallow. There's something about this house, about what happened in here, that weighs you down, threatens to pressure you and make you shrink. You refuse with every ounce of will you have. You're not going to surrender to those shadows calling Lucy's name.

They're there. You could take a book from a shelf or open a cupboard and hear their laughter. They'd tell you that you haven't changed. That Lima is still where you belong; that you're destined to marry the quarterback and hide behind his giant back.

You could go to your old room and see Lucy's ghost sitting on the bed, hiding from the bullies, wishing to become someone else; you could hear her prayers; you could hear her cry. You could listen to the walls and the carpet and the furniture repeat your pleas. You told your pillow over and over again as you soaked it with tears; you asked for answers, but they never came.

That's what this place is to you: A collection of painful memories.

Jesse once called you the ghost of Grace Kelly. Maybe that's because just like everything in this place, you, too, were dead.

You and your mom have dinner together and it's actually going alright. It's just the two of you, because your sister is spending today with her husband's family and who knows where Russel has vanished to. Sometimes you wonder if you three really meant so little to him that he's not even trying to make amends. He never even called you up to try and buy himself back into the family, the way any other rich father would have done. He never tried to blackmail or sue any of you. He simply disappeared quietly, for good. Maybe that was his last cruel goodbye gift: denying you any kind of closure.

Your mom tells you about this guy she met at a CoDA meeting. His name is Jake and he's a dentist. It makes you smile when you see her blush as she talks about him. Jake has kids of his own and according to your mom he's an excellent cook and a very educated man. He reads Proust, she says, wistfully. Of course she expects you to be jealous, to throw a tantrum about how she can go around and date again. She says that your sister is not happy with how things within the family are developing. You roll your eyes and think of Frannie and her husband and how old-fashioned they are. Frannie, in contrast to you, never had to fear anything, never had anything to fight for. She won prom queen two years in a row and graduated with a straight-A average, just to follow your mom's footsteps and become a housewife in some small suburb. Apparently she's very content with that so you can't possibly judge her. Unfortunately she's judging you very much.

But you're happy for your mom. It took you so long to accept that you're allowed to love at all that you can't begrudge her wanting exactly that for herself.

She's already wasted too much time. She really deserves a second chance.

Maybe you'll find someone soon, too, she says.

And just like that she's done it again. You stop chewing for a second and think. Just think. Because it's already obvious what's coming next and if there's one thing you don't want to face right now – or ever again – it's this talk. Your heart stops beating and you hope, hope with everything you have that just this one time you'll be spared the disappointment and frustration.

Mom, you warn her, but she's oblivious, of course. You can see it in her face. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes for a brief moment. The second right before the impact is always the worst.

And then her lips form the words you dread so much.

I really wish you had chosen an easier path. She pauses and you're already shaking your head. And you'd look so pretty in a wedding dress.

Her insults don't come as such. They're hidden, because she doesn't actually mean to offend you. She simply doesn't know any better. But it hurts. It hurts, because if she did it on purpose you could hate her.

You place your fork and knife next your plate and lift the napkin from your lap to your mouth. You take a breath.

I can still wear a wedding dress, you inform her as calmly as possible. You've had this discussion before. She never listens. But you try anyway. You try, because she's your mom and you love her.

I didn't mean it like that, she answers with regret written all over her face. But I see how people treat homosexuals. I don't want you to be treated like that.

Her misguided love stings. Your skin itches and your heart aches. You can barely breathe.

And since when exactly do we get to choose whom we're attracted to?

You don't mean for it to sound so harsh. Or maybe you do. Maybe you wish she'd finally give you a reason to hurt her right back. Maybe you hate that she doesn't. It's not fair.

She's silent for a while and you blink your tears of frustration away. It's always the same with her.

Thank you for dinner, you say in a low voice and move to stand up.

The look on her face is pure disappointment and it hurts to see her like that. It hurts knowing that you can't see her whenever you want, because it always ends like this. It hurts so much that it's almost easier not seeing her at all. But it's Thanksgiving, so you came.

And because it's your Thanksgiving, too, it's time to leave.

You promise to drop by tomorrow to say goodbye and pull her into a hug. You kiss her head and say you'd like to meet Jake someday.

She smiles sadly when you let go and keeps standing in the open door until you lose sight of her in the rear view mirror.

You hope she'll call her sponsor.

.

One short hour later you're lying on the floor of Rachel Berry's childhood bedroom, drunk, laughing so hard you think you might cry.

Everything is spinning and everything around you is pink and if it weren't for Rachel's shoulder pressed into yours you might actually drown in this drunken candy cotton dream.

Or throw up.

You've actually never been in Rachel's room before. Your friendship began tentatively during senior year. You started hanging out, in groups, on neutral ground like the Lima Bean. Then you spent time together alone, just the two of you, in the school's library, the cafeteria and one time you even went to Breadstix together. But you never met at home.

Your house was off-limits, because you were afraid your mother would say something stupid and destroy the fragile bond between you and Rachel. Rachel's house was also off-limits, because you were too afraid to face her dads after all you put their daughter through. And you were really just getting to know each other anyway.

Besides, the prospect of having _her _in your room, looking at your pictures, at your belongings, at your _private life_… the thought alone used to make you panic. There was just SO much to find out! What if she asked why there are no pictures of your sister or friends? What if she asked why you're not wearing your cross anymore? What if she asked why your room was full of things that didn't say anything about you? What if she was indeed psychic? What if you accidentally kissed her again?

Rachel, you exclaim. Rachel, where are we?

She bursts out into a new fit of laughter and because she's so close to your ear it's the loudest thing you've ever heard as well as the most beautiful.

We're in my room!

Then she snorts and it's not entirely cute.

You push yourself up into a sitting position and rest your weight on your elbows.

Yes, but everything is pink! Like, why? What is this place?

It's not as spacious as you had imagined it. There's a queen sized bed opposite the door, pink pillows, pink duvet. The wood looks like mahogany, but knowing Rachel it probably isn't. There's a nightstand on either side as if she had always been ready to be part of a couple. For a moment you think that Finn might be the reason, but you don't want him intruding on this moment with her so you push that thought away. You don't want to imagine him lying on her bed. Not right now. Not ever.

There's a dresser with a vanity mirror to your left right next to the door and the wood matches the bed in color. You count four drawers.

Oh my god, the carpet looks like a piano! Rachel!

You fail completely at containing your excitement about the fact that you're seeing her room for the first time. And the wine you shared keeps you from filtering your thoughts before they come bubbling out of your mouth.

I feel like I'm too big for this room. Like I'm in a doll house. Were you even smaller than I remember? Have you grown since college?

You wipe at the corners of your eyes and Rachel playfully slaps your arm.

Ok, ok, enough now, she states, moving to sit up as well. I'll have you know that my dads hired a prestigious design firm to ensure the room I'd be spending the majority of my teenage years in would match the inner….

You try to listen. You really really do, but it's too much. Her room, her things, her carpet beneath your elbows, her voice in your ears, her scent, everywhere, the alcohol, it's too much. You haven't been drunk for a while and you weren't planning on drinking at all tonight. But you also didn't plan on ending up in the Berry house.

After you had left your mom's house your fingers fished for your phone of their own accord and dialed the only number you could remember. Rachel invited you over without even asking what happened.

Am I talking too much?

Her question sobers you a little. Her voice lacks of the giddiness you shared before. Instead she's quiet, shy.

No, you shake your head. No, I'm sorry. I'm not used to drinking that much. Or at all.

She huffs and reaches for one of those pink pillows from her bed before lying down again.

Finn used to always scold me for talking too much.

You can't come up with anything to say so instead you just awkwardly stare down at her. It takes a while before her words register. The entire time you spent with her you congratulated her for growing up, changing. You thought of her as laid back, mature. Now the crack in her voice and the flicker in her eyes make you realize all of your assumptions about her are wrong.

As a teenager you always used to call her annoying, but you never really thought she was. You just wanted her to stop reminding you of her existence. You wanted her to be quiet so you could ignore her. Now it's different. You like to hear her talk. So hearing her apologize for that hurts. She's not laid back like you thought; she's just daunted.

Her ex has indeed done a fine job changing her.

You're about to tell her what an idiot he is, when something in the corner of her room catches your eyes.

Rachel Barbra Berry! Is that an electric guitar?

You rub your eyes and the image won't vanish. How could you overlook the instrument until now? Maybe because it's entirely pink and therefore perfectly blends in with the rest of her room.

She bursts into laughter yet again and you manage to tear your eyes away from the guitar long enough to notice her abs quiver and shake through her dress.

That's not even my name, she manages in a high pitched voice.

When you just keep staring at her in confusion she wipes at her eyes and forces herself to breathe evenly.

My name's not actually Barbra, she says before cracking up and catching herself again. Her eyes still glisten when she informs you she only has one name: Rachel. The other one she made up to compare herself to her big idol. It was more a statement to McKinley, the world, to herself, than anything else. She was born a star and meant for everyone to know so. You blink a few times in disbelief and fail to get it.

Your name's not…?

She shakes her head and snorts with laughter again.

Sorry. Tears are running down her cheeks now. You'll both have sore abs tomorrow, that's for sure.

You let your palm run over your face and refuse to give this new information too much thought. Your cheeks feel slightly numb and your head feels heavy and everything is exhausting.

Then you remember your last train of thought.

Show me your hands, you demand and Rachel raises her eyebrows.

What? Why?

But she's already motioning to sit up.

Just give me your tiny solo grabbing hands, you chuckle, and before you know it you're kneeling opposite of each other and the backs of her hands are resting in your palms and you've both stopped laughing.

Her hands are not tiny. Actually they're pretty average, just like yours. And they never actually grabbed any solos – not from you anyway. And they're warm and soft and you swallow thickly when your thumbs brush her fingertips. She giggles quietly and apparently realizes what you're searching for.

I haven't played in years.

But you just keep staring at her open palms.

It's probably the wine that makes your head spin, not her touch. It's probably that your vision is blurry which causes you to think of each line in her hand as a little miracle. It's probably because your head is pounding that you hear something snap deep inside of you. It's probably the alcohol that makes you feel like you're so hot. You just want to surrender to the flames and burn to the ground.

Then you don't know who leaned in first, but her lips are on yours and your hands are pulling her closer.

You fall backwards and she follows.

Somewhere in the distance you hear the creaking of your garden gate, lullabies and snowflakes falling in one of your childhood winters.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Thank you so much for the ongoing support. I know the updates are coming slowly. That's just real life getting in the way of fiction. If anyone feels the urge to kick my ass, find me on tumblr (normally **relax-o-vision**, during October Halloween themed **relax-o-lantern**).

But don't let my babbeling distract you. Here we go.

* * *

Images from that one party junior year flash through your mind. They're blurry and vague. You remember Puck letting you into his home, eying you up like prey. You remember a red Solo cup being pushed into your hand. You remember how you were too afraid to ask what kind of beverage you were drinking. You weren't timid Lucy anymore. You were Quinn Fabray now. And Quinn Fabray did anything to be popular. So you downed what you had been handed, ignoring how your mouth watered from disgust, trying to keep your face impassive when you really felt like dying.

You pretended to have done shots before, too. In hindsight that was a terrible idea.

You open your eyes and your head is pounding and your neck is sore. The faint memory of Puck's smug grin as he handed you a slice of lemon, and blurry images of Brittany dancing on the kitchen counter are gradually vanishing back into the past where they belong. You remember kissing someone.

Then you realize you're still lying on the floor and Rachel's gone.

Ever so slowly you push yourself up and take in your surroundings once more.

Your room was the place where you slept, where you cried, where you hid. Most of the time you kept the lights switched off and the curtains closed. But you never really spent time in it. You didn't live in it. Your house has always been the equivalent of death.

That became even worse after your accident. Before, you managed to sneak up and down those stairs to your bedroom. You could avoid your parents if you wanted to. You'd open the front door, hurry upstairs, shrug off your armor and leave reality outside in the revealing light of the day. Up in your room your mom's wish was far away. Up in your room your father's fists were far away. Up in your room your status didn't matter. It was just you and the darkness.

The wheelchair changed everything. It took away this safe spot, because you had to be picked up after school. You couldn't go anywhere without your mom. You had to be carried upstairs and you had your room rearranged so all your books were at eye level. You couldn't get into bed alone and you couldn't dress yourself.

You needed aid in the shower. You were stripped of your clothes, your autonomy, your privacy, yourself. You were naked in so many ways and all you wished for was for that damn physiotherapy to work faster so you'd get a little bit of your dignity back.

Screw Artie and his lectures about how not everything has to be awful. Screw Joe and his prayers for acceptance. What did they know about anything? What did they know about what it was like to have yourself exposed when there was so much that needed to be covered up? Stretch marks and thick scars and being gay for Rachel Berry. Suddenly everything was out in the open, bleeding out of your wounds, running rivers, crashing dams, inviting strangers to look at you.

That was more than just a couple of high school boys leering at your pretty shell. It was like you could feel their hands on you, everywhere.

But Rachel's room? The stark contrast is striking. Her room is colorful and lively. Everything's easily accessible and she's not even afraid to leave you in here alone. It's like there's nothing to hide, no secrets to uncover. Like it's easy to trust. Like there's nothing humiliating to find.

You shift uncomfortably from one butt cheek to the other and almost knock the glass of water over that's standing to your right. It's only then that you notice the Advils lying next to it. You take them and sigh a 'thanks' into the empty room.

You attempt to get up when Rachel pushes open the door and waltzes into the room. She's wearing a tank top and sweats and a towel over her hair and a gorgeous hickey on her collarbone that you may or may not remember giving her.

When she sees that you're up she asks how you feel and if you need fresh clothes, and tells you that the bathroom is just down the hall. You smile… because of everything. Because last night was a lot more than you'd ever hoped for and because… because… because she's Rachel and you've waited just _so_ long. A lifetime. She touches her fingers to the violet spot on her skin. You can't wait to kiss her again.

Do you know if I bumped into something? I don't remember much from last night.

Your heart stops and sinks into your stomach. It's that high school party all over again and Santana is telling you that making out doesn't mean anything if you're drunk. You're not gay. Boundaries get blurry when alcohol is involved and your bodies craved some physical connection. Just because it feels good doesn't mean that there's more to it.

You believed her easily and were even more relieved than hurt.

Except that now it's the other way around and Rachel's statement makes you falter. It's like a slap in the face, but you can't punch back, because deep down you already knew you're not allowed to have her, or anything for that matter. It's your own fault for letting your guard down and getting your hopes up.

So you do the only thing you know how to do well. You rationalize emotions and make up explanations, dead set on believing whatever your mind comes up with. You need to deflect. You need to go back into your shell. You need to find a way to shut that crack in your heart, stop the light streaming out of it, enclose yourself in darkness and secrecy again.

Of course she didn't mean to kiss you. It happens. That's what Santana said, right? And even though you know it's impossible that she doesn't remember a thing, you're not going to call her out on that. Sure, she wasn't as drunk as you were, but she was still not entirely sober. And now she regrets what happened. Or maybe she just wants it to remain a one- time thing. She probably just liked the physical connection. She loves physical connection, after all!

Either way, she just told you to not mention it again. She cut that cord that was holding the door to your past and now she's leaving you to deal with the consequences. It's not fair, but you already figured that that's your life. And it's her life, too, so you need to respect her boundaries.

It hurts. You're sixteen again. You're Quinn the pretty blonde cheerleader, the tool in Sue Sylvester's hands, in Terri Shuester's hands, in your dad's hands, pushed around between the frontiers – pushed out the door, pushed deeper into the closet, pushed into the mattress by Puck's lies and your own insecurities – pushed all the way to the edge of the cliff, just to be told it's your own fault for going too far. You're a trainwreck, damaged goods. You're twelve. You're Lucy the bully victim who doesn't dare to dream. You're fat and ugly and not worth shit. You're small and fragile and a nobody. You're anyone but you.

And it's so hard to breathe.

You force a smile and shake your head and say something like you don't remember much, either, but you have fresh clothes in your bag and thanks for the Advil.

She helps you up and you almost fall into her. You feel like shit.

You wash your face and brush your teeth, which makes you feel dizzy all over again. So you splash more cold water into your face and hope it'll go away. Your stomach feels hollow and your legs are wobbly. You grab the sink and close your eyes and take your time to just be for a while.

Gradually your sanity comes creeping back into your mind, so you manage to feel embarrassed about your internal emotional outbreak. You're not in high school anymore. You've left the crazy drama behind, remember?

Lima is not good for your soul. And holy fuck, you're definitely not drinking again anytime soon.

When you finally muster up the courage to leave the bathroom, ears burning with shame that hopefully no one will see written all across your face, Rachel calls for you to come downstairs. It strikes you then that you'll now have to face her dads.

Ever so slowly you make your way downstairs. What was that about sucking it up and powering through it again? This is the perfect chance to practice.

So you smooth down your dress with your palms and take one step after another towards the kitchen. The hallway is plastered with family pictures, mostly black and white. Rachel and her dads in front of the piano. Rachel and her dads at the beach. Rachel and her dads at a picnic under a tree. Rachel as a baby. Rachel at a dancing lesson. Rachel. Everywhere. The entire Berry house seems to be a family shrine and you can't even feel jealous about it.

The memory of laughter echoes from every wall – never fading images of a little girl chasing her dad through the hallway, flour flying everywhere and the kitchen filling with the scent of cookies; there is love in every room.

No wonder that you failed to break her. No wonder that you envied her so much.

No wonder you're so in awe of her now.

In Rachel's house the doors are always open. In your house all doors were always closed. You mistook it for safety, because that way your parents could never see your true self.

In reality they saw you clearly. They shut the doors, because they didn't want to know the truth. They called it privacy when in reality you were nothing but their dirty little secret.

Exhaling once more you step into the kitchen and are immediately greeted by a man who introduces himself as Hiram. He's wearing an apron that says "New York", which he uses to wipe his hand before offering it to you.

Quinn, nice to finally meet you, he says and seems to mean it.

His grip is firm but not too tight. His voice is clear but not too loud. His hair is grey and his smile is bright. You like him immediately.

I bought bacon, Rachel chirps and just like that the tension's broken.

LeRoy joins you about twenty minutes later. Unlike his husband and daughter he's not a morning person and clings to his cup of coffee desperately. But just like his husband and daughter he's kind, very articulate, very straight forward. He's a good active listener and has a response to everything. He knows his boundaries and he respects yours without making you feel bad about it.

You watch. You listen. You feel.

No one's acting strange around you. Your presence doesn't influence their dynamic at all. It's like you're part of their family and seeing the Berrys interact, you can't help but wish you really were one of them, not one of your own kind. The way Hiram looks at LeRoy makes your heart melt. They touch each other casually on each other's arms, shoulders, waists, just to show affection. There's no implicit threat behind their words, no message to decipher, no order to be followed.

It's so ironic to think that you were brought up to disdain them. Your father taught you they weren't good enough; not good enough to be your friends; not good enough to be called a family; not good enough to live in peace. Queer. Poor. Ugly.

Different.

In the end all he really taught you was that there's nothing more wonderful on this planet than to be different than him – or you, for that matter. It's bitter how both lessons, the explicit one and the one implied, have isolated you.

Quinn, are you ok?

You swallow thickly and nod.

You have a lovely home, you tell Rachel. She beams.

I'm glad you like it, she says. After all you've done for me opening my own door for you was the least I could do. It's really important to me that you feel welcome.

Out of the corner of your eyes you see her fathers exchange glances.

You breathe out once more, trying forcefully not to interpret anything into that, and offer Rachel a half-smile.

I really do feel welcome. Thank you.

You say the last two words loudly enough for her dads to hear and they smile at you. It's brief, but it's a smile that reaches their eyes easily.

.

Way too soon it's time to go. As much as you'd love to stay, you can't; you physically can't. Lima is dragging you down too much already. The thought of leaving Rachel's warm, welcoming home in order to see your mom makes your stomach clench. But you promised. As long as she's here, as long as the house you grew up in is here, as long as Lima is full of ghosts – or better, yet – demons, you'll never be able to stay. You're too afraid the town will suck the life out of you, trap you like it did years ago, cover you with dust and weigh you down. Turn you back into a lifeless ragdoll.

So you booked an early flight to have an excuse to hurry off before anyone can even suggest you stop by Puck's place or even Shuester's. You don't want to see anyone. You want your couch. You want your bed. You want to regenerate.

Rachel hugs you tight.

See you in New York, she says. It was so nice to have you here.

Thankfully, she doesn't try to convince you to stay and she doesn't suggest you repeat this. She's persistent, but she's always given you a choice. She's always trusted you to make the right decision. She's always known you had a reason for everything you did.

In that she was the only one.

LeRoy shakes your hand and there's a strange glint in his eye.

Take care, Quinn, he says and like all his words these don't sound empty, either. They sound like he means them.

When you turn around to say goodbye to Hiram, he takes your hand and pulls you into his body. It's so unexpected that you tense for a second. But it's so sincere that you melt almost instantly and hug him back. His strong arms wrap tightly around you. He's holding you, providing safety. Just what is he shielding you from?

We never got the chance to tell you this, he says, voice steady, never letting go of you. But you're always welcome here. Whatever you need, you're family, Quinn.

You're so taken aback by his words that you don't dare to step back from his embrace and face him. You always thought Rachel's dads would hate you for what you've done to their daughter. You were sure they'd only ever tolerate you for Rachel's sake.

We know what you've been through, he adds softly. We know life's not been easy on you. I just want you to know that no matter what happens,

You shudder out a long breath against his chest before letting go of him. His face is earnest. His hands remain on your shoulders and he looks straight into your eyes.

He knows. He knows everything.

If you want to you'll always have a home here. Always.

And just like that your mind is blank and your mouth is dry. You're naked and for the first time ever you don't feel exposed. There's no shame. There's no need to hide.

A home.

Huh.


	7. Outtakes from the original short

**A/N:** This is not a new chapter!

Now that I've ripped that painful band-aid off, here's the good news:

This _is_ new material!

**Wrath** was originally meant to be a short one-shot, and it was going in a very different direction than the story it has become. As a consequence there're a couple of scenes with, uh, 'alternative' content, which will never make it into the finished fic.

I know I'm keeping you guys waiting forever, so as somewhat of a consolation prize I decided to give you these scenes from the original short.

There's one passage that may come up later, as well as one paragraph which you already know. I reused it in a different context.

And yes, this is a promise that I'll finish the story.

So without further ado:

.

**Wrath - Outtakes**

That night you wake up when you feel the mattress dip down on the other side of the bed. You lift your covers for her to slip under and wait for a cold set of limbs to find yours but when she touches you she's warm and suddenly you're not so sure you're actually awake anymore.

She slides her hand over your waist and tugs until you're lying on your back and then it's all happening like in one of those dreams you had before you had figured yourself out, back when you still considered your desires a sin.

She climbs on top of you and dives down to press her lips to yours. And here's the thing: You want this. You've wanted this ever since you realized your hatred for her was actually hatred for yourself; you've wanted this ever since the need to slap her face turned into a wish to always keep her safe; you've wanted this, but knew you could never have it. She was with Finn and Jesse and Puck and Finn again and always Finn. So you moved on and mended your broken heart by wrapping it in other girls' sheets. At first that's all it was: Fixing yourself. But you'd be lying if you were to say you never found love. Except now you're tumbling backwards.

Your hands move on their own accord and they shoot up to her waist to find naked skin. She's pressing down hard on you now and your mouth falls slack. She cracks open your lips and her tongue finds yours. It's all happening so fast. You hear a moan and can't tell whether it's yours or hers until she rolls her hips against you and your eyes roll back in your skull. The next moan is definitely yours.

She kisses you again and again, her tongue explores your mouth and soft whimpers fill the room. Somewhere deep inside lies the thought that you should stop her, that you should talk about what's happening, that you want to know what that means, if it means something, if it has to mean something; you want time to figure out if you want it to mean something at all; if this is just you falling back into your destructive high school years. Or if it even matters.

But she's grinding against you with purpose now and when she breaks the kiss you will your eyes open to look at her. And suddenly you're on the verge of tears again; she's everything you dreamed of and more; she's not just beautiful, not just cute, not just sexy.

She's a vision.

You reach out until your fingertips graze her abs. You feel her muscles quiver and look up into her eyes and there's… there's… just, what is that?

And then she slips her hand between you two. Again there's no time to comprehend what's happening until it's happening and it's happening fast. She reaches down and grinds down harder. She's touching herself on top of you and you feel her knuckles press down against your flesh through your shorts. Your hips cant up automatically and she stops, as if it was her who had just been yanked out of her sleep.

The panic in her eyes shines through even in the darkness of your bedroom. She searches your face and whispers an apology, but you shake your head. Maybe you imagined it differently; maybe in your teenage years this would have been wrong; or maybe not. You think that maybe there's nothing wrong about wanting something at all, even if it's selfish, even if you're not sure about your emotions; maybe it's not wrong to act on a simple wish. Maybe neither of you will have to be confused.

You think that maybe this can just happen if you both want it.

So you lead her hand back between her legs. Your fingertips tentatively dip into her wetness and you gulp and your head slams back into the pillow. You groan. You leave your hand on hers when she starts rocking again, slowly at first. Her eyes flutter and you can see how the insecurity in her eyes vanishes and is replaced with deep need. She wants you. She wants to get off on top of you.

She sits up, lets the covers slide down her back and rides both your hands, making sure her hips grind down deeply enough for the back of your hand to push into you as well. And she's making all these sexy noises that you fail to fully process. Her eyes fall shut and her other hand holds onto your shirt tightly.

You come before she does.

The build-up is quick and sharp now that your own knuckles bend and press into you. You feel her fingers twitch and your hand is coated with her wetness. She grinds down so needy, so desperate, with such a sense of urgency that it's like her want settles deep down in your belly and spreads fast and forcefully. You shake and spread your legs, which causes her to spread her own above you. You look at your joined hands and are gone in a flash.

She tumbles over the edge right after you and it's quiet and soft and over way too fast. She stops moving and climbs down and whispers another apology and again you hold her close before she can crawl away.

You remember her like the lines of your favorite movie, like the stars above Lima, which you used to gaze at with your back damp from grass and your toes freezing from the coolness of the night. You remember her every move like the dance rehearsals back in Glee club.

But you've never touched her like this. You've never felt her break apart beneath your palm and you've never seen her bare. You've never been able to marvel at her unguarded self, her true beauty, not the one on posters and in magazines. Not like that.

You've never felt her curl into you, small and naked and oddly strong and happy and sad all at once.

When she starts to cry you ask her if she wants to put her clothes back on, but instead of an answer she buries herself into you like that first day when you opened your door and found her standing outside.

I didn't mean to just…

But you don't want her to finish that sentence so you interrupt her by touching your lips to hers. You think she must be freezing so you carefully pull the covers back up and wrap her in cloth and your embrace.

I don't know if I…

Again you cut her off.

We don't have to talk about this now, you say, also to yourself.

You wouldn't know what to say anyway so you choose to say nothing. You just hold her against you and enjoy how her fingers press into your back. How her breasts press against yours. The softness of her skin and her breath on your neck and the vanilla scent of her hair. She's perfect.

.

After that she starts seeking you out. That first night has lit a fire and it's now slowly burning up the wick. You couldn't put it out if you wanted to and even though something inside you waits for the explosion and the damage that will follow, you also like the burn.

She comes to you every night when she thinks that you're asleep already. She seeks shelter in the darkness and you're both always wrapped in a half-dream so neither of you can say for sure it's really happening. That way it's not hard to act normal around each other during the day when the sun threatens to reveal questions you don't dare ask.

She kisses you awake, even though you're never sleeping. She parts your lips with hers; she sucks your lower lip; she licks and caresses and she kisses you dizzy until you're humming and purring.

And she mounts you and fucks herself against you with her eyes shut. It's always fast and she's always gorgeous. Sometimes you come, sometimes you don't; sometimes you touch yourself once she's gone again. When you do it's just as fast as when she's on top of you; the fresh memory of her makes it easy.

You never talk.

She comes in and then she comes and then she's gone again. She kisses the corner of your mouth or your eyelids or your cheek and strokes your hair. She looks at you for a second and in that second her eyes say _I'm yours. _

It lulls you in a stupor. It alters something in your molecules. You don't know how, or what exactly happens. You just know you're not the same Quinn anymore, because after almost ten years since you drew those pornographic pictures of her on the walls of bathroom stalls, she's yours now every night.

Sometimes you lean up and steal another kiss before she leaves. It doesn't hurt to watch her go. You always know she'll come back, even though you don't know why.

.

I really like your hair, she whispers on the ninth night.

It comes as such a surprise that you're not sure she's actually said it. But she kisses your cheek and sinks her fingers into your hair and looks at you with, well, you're not sure what that is. Her eyes are dark and so deep, like you could drown in them.

She lets strands of your hair glide through her fingers and places soft kisses on your lips. Maybe you're dreaming after all. I liked your long wavy hair, too, she states, but this is just so you.

And it is.

Coming out, you had to realize, is not just about declaring whom you're attracted to. It's about finding out who you really are, what you want from life, what you like and what you don't; it's about growing up and being happy, being comfortable in your own skin. Straight people would call it puberty. You can't become a full adult without going through that first.

It's not that anyone forced you to wear those baby doll dresses back in school, or at your first day of college you burnt your clothes and got rid of your old self as an act of rebellion. It was a slow transformation instead.

You had cut your hair short before once, before Nationals in New York, with Santana and Brittany present. When you made that appointment to do it again you thought back to that day with a smile. You had scolded Santana for thinking a hair cut would free you of your problems, but maybe it wasn't like that at all. Maybe, even though she didn't know for sure you were gay then, she saw your true self. She looked at you and knew who you really were. And that was what the hair cut was about. Santana simply thought short hair was so you.

You wear your hair shorter now than you did back then, but still long enough to pass as a girl to most people. You're not a Shane, but not a Carmen, either.

Rachel gently strokes a lock out of your face and now the look on her face is that of awe. It makes you grin like an idiot. You really like your hair, too.

.

The more often she comes to you the more you get attached to it. You lie awake, waiting, counting the minutes, counting the hours until you finally hear the click of your door handle and feel the mattress dip again. She'll sometimes whisper your name now.

Quinn.

She knows you're never sleeping.

You lie awake and pull the covers up to your chin and wait. It's cozy in your little nest. And it's even cozier now that you get to share it, even though she never stays. Those precious moments with her are enough, because you know there'll always be tomorrow night. She's finally yours, after all these years, even though you still haven't talked about what's going on between you. And you think it doesn't matter, because at night she belongs to you and during the day she's living with you as well. You've been her guard when she needed protection. You've been her first choice to run to after her break up.

.

I haven't just come here because of Finn.

You're eating dinner, vegan lasagna, when she tells you she's mostly here because she really wanted to see you. You can't help the smile on your face when you say how glad you are that she's here.

She's decided to take a whole month off, or maybe two. You thought her coping strategy would be to bury herself in work, but the Rachel you once knew has changed. She's more laid back now, calm, mature. She doesn't ramble the way she used to, and breathes now instead. In your head it was her high school sweetheart holding her back from that kind of progress. Now it's almost as if she's physically grown.

She's gotten rid of a burden the size of a football player.

Her plan for the next couple of weeks is to treat herself, to kick back, drink a lot of tea and spend time with someone she meant to visit for ages – that's you, of course. She wants time to recover. It's a hint to why you never talk about this thing that's happening at night when no one's watching. It's a hint not to question her behavior. You almost feel admonished and the smile is wiped off your face. An old emotion bubbles up, disguised as something new – anger.

.

By the time you hear the click of your door at night your anger has completely vanished. You know you're being childish and you shake off those unwanted thoughts and emotions. She's here, after all. She's here with you.

She rolls you on your back and kisses you dizzy. Oh, Quinn, she sighs, and you respond with a little moan. She's perfect. She's so much more than you had allowed yourself to dream of. You tell her she's beautiful and she stills her movement to look at you. Her eyes are wide like that of a fawn and just as dark and although she's gorgeous that expression is also new and somehow frightening. She's never looked like that at you before, contemplating, like she's searching for something. Or maybe she's scared as well? Maybe she's waiting for something to happen. You really can't tell.

You part your lips to ask if she's ok, but she swallows your question before the words come out. Her kisses are deeper now, slower, softer, almost loving. She cups both your cheeks, holding your face between her hands like a grail, making you feel just as special. She's kissing you with everything she has and you feel it. You feel everything. You feel her desire and her worry. You feel her passion and her fears and her hopes. You feel how much she needs you now. How much she needs this; how much she wants this.

And you kiss her back and hope she feels you just the same.

Then she takes your hand and she kisses your fingertips. You're so mesmerized that you don't realize at first when she leads your wet fingers down her abdomen, down all the way between her legs.

The moment you brush the softest spot of skin you almost faint. But she leans down and captures your lips once again in a series of silent pleas. With every kiss she's begging you to touch her so you do and she starts moving. It's the same like all these nights before and yet it's entirely different. She's grinding down on you, riding you, pressing hard, moaning softly into your mouth. Except this time she lets you feel her.

And you feel her. You feel her on your fingertips. You feel her pulse quicken. You feel her throbbing. You feel her lips on your neck and you feel her grabbing the pillow next to your head. You feel her heart beat against yours. You feel your own heart burst open and hear something crack deep inside of you. She shudders and whimpers and you panic when you realize that the door back into your past has been ripped wide open. It's like the light streaming from the other side is blinding you now. You reach out to force it back shut, but it's too late. She comes with a gasp and your name on her lips. It's a soft explosion against your neck. It's so wonderful and so painful and so frightening and such bliss. It's everything and more and way too much and not enough; never enough.

You're on the verge of tears, because you know you're lost. You're lost.

You're lost.

She stays another twenty minutes.


End file.
